


It's Ridiculous, is the Thing

by TheImaginativeFox



Series: Dick Grayson EDS AU [3]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Chronic Illness, EDS AU, Gen, Injury, Mentions of Barbara Gordon, Mentions of Wally West, dick's POV, mid-diagnosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 14:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13572807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheImaginativeFox/pseuds/TheImaginativeFox
Summary: Dick should've been asleep, but instead, he's shakily wrapping his pinky in medical tape on the bathroom floor. It amazes him how despite the countless horrors he's faced as Robin, a simple knuckle dislocation is what sends him over the edge. It's ridiculous, is the thing. EDS AU, mid-diagnosis, Robin era.





	It's Ridiculous, is the Thing

**Author's Note:**

> **EDS AU Overview:** To put it simply, Dick has a connective tissue disorder called hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (hEDS/EDS) that causes, among plenty of other things, a lot of joints problems (hypermobility, instability, dislocations, etc.) Any specific hEDS information needed for the story will be found at the end.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I draw off of my own experience with hEDS for these fics and I do my best to supplement that with lots of research, but keep in mind that everyone's experience with EDS is different and I'm not an expert. This is just for fun and ~~self-projection~~ to get more chronic illness representation out there.
> 
> Dick is thirteen in this, and it takes place during the fall right after the Team is formed.

It's ridiculous, is the thing. It's a little after three thirty in the morning and Dick is awake for whatever reason, unable to sleep. He’s just starting to get tired when his body decides that it would be a great time to get out from under his nice, warm covers and make a trip down the hall towards the bathroom. He’s tired, looks it too, but he just has to wash his hands and then he can go back to bed.

It's ridiculous. He's been washing his hands his whole life, but, of course, he somehow finds a way to mess up such a simple task. He doesn't know how it happens, but one second he's rotating his hands to lather them in soap, and the next—

"Aaargh," Dick hisses as he feels something in his pinky push against his skin, grinding as it goes and leaving him with a deep, sharp pain when it finally stops. "Crap, _crap_ , _ow_ , _ow_ , ow, _ahh_."

What just happened? _How_?

Dick's hand is out of the water and against his shirt the second it happens. Water drips onto the floor as Dick rocks slightly on his knees, clutching his left pinky as if it’s about to fall off. Then, just like that, he accidentally presses too hard against his pinky, causing more pressure and pain and movement before a _click_ and, finally, a bit of relief.

Another hiss escapes Dick's mouth before he’s able to take a few shaky breaths and examine his finger. Unsurprisingly, his finger aches and throbs. It's a little surprising when he sees that the knuckle is already beginning to swell. Worst of all, however, is that the knuckle is _loose_ —very loose. And yeah, Dick's about 90% sure that he really did in fact just dislocate and relocate the middle knuckle on his left pinky.

Dick closes his eyes, “ _Crap_.”

Dick pauses for a moment and forces out a few more shaky breaths before doing anything else. (Because, yeah, it doesn't hurt enough that he's going to cry, but his knuckle just ground and clicked itself out of place, got stuck as it pressed against his skin, and then popped back. He _felt_ it, every second of it. And sure, it isn't the worst thing he's ever experienced, but it edged on terrible.)

 _Okay okay okay okay_. 

Step one: check to make sure the knuckle is actually in correctly and completely.

"Okay, okay, okay, okay," now he's repeating it out loud like some kind of mantra. A part of him wants to go get Bruce and make him fix it, but the rational part is telling him that it's not that bad and he probably just needs some medical tape to stabilize the knuckle while he sleeps. Basically, he needs to get over the lingering shock of what just happened and suck it up.

(Because— _seriously_? He’s had bigger, more painful dislocations in the past that didn't have the luxury of being relocated right away.)

It’s hard to tell with the swelling, but the knuckle is back in place and throbbing. So far so good.

He touches it: sore, kind of tender, and loose. Still so _loose_. And that part, that’s the part that scares him.

Dick bites his lip because, what if it pops out again and gets stuck? And maybe that makes him a little nervous and maybe it makes him want to go get Bruce again because the odds are definitely not in his favor.

"I can't sleep like this,” Dick finally huffs before getting to work.

Knowing what needs to be done—having a plan in general—makes him feel a little more relaxed. He seems to go on autopilot and before he knows it, he's swallowing an Aleve to help with swelling and his pinky is being immobilized. By the time he's finished wrapping his finger in medical tape, he's much calmer and no longer afraid that it’s going to falling out again. So that’s something.

He examines his work. "Not bad." Ice sounds great, though. Like, so _so_ nice.

So that's what he does. He quietly goes down to the kitchen and ices his pinky for about twenty minutes. The shock of the whole situation is completely gone by this point and just becomes this crazy, ridiculous thing that happened. Plus, the "hurting stage" has moved into the "aching stage," so that's good too.

When he's back in his room and tucked away, it's a little after four. It's hard to fall asleep because every time he moves his hand—and with it, his pinky—the pain flares up again. The pain reminds him of how loose his pinky is, making him wonder if it could still fall out of place in his makeshift splint. He tells himself that his anxiety over his pinky is just a projection via his current state of exhaustion and stress, but there's also this pit in his stomach telling him that _something is wrong. This isn't normal. Something is wrong._ And maybe part of it's stress, but most of it isn't.

Morning comes and Dick showers, re-splints, and ices on and off. He doesn't have school ( _thank you parent-teacher conferences_ ) but Bruce is at work, so it's just him and Alfred. And with that Alfred-sense, the butler knows something is up right away; probably before he even sees the ice pack, Dick thinks.

Dick waits for Alfred to say something first, which, of course, he does.

"Master Dick, may I ask what happened to your hand?" Alfred asks, foregoing the usual morning greeting. 

"Um, it's kind of weird and sort of funny, actually. The short story is that last night I couldn't sleep and I went to the bathroom, but when I washing my hands, my knuckle dislocated," Dick explains quickly, fidgeting a little and looking at his hand instead of Alfred the whole time.

"Do you mind elaborating on that, sir?"

Alfred sits down across from him while Dick explains how it felt, what happened before and after, and how it looked this morning (a little bruised and swollen, and yes Alfred, it still hurts a little, but no Alfred, his finger isn't numb).

"But it's back in now, Master Dick?" Alfred asks.

"Yeah, it was only out for about eight seconds at most. Could've been a little shorter than that, like, maybe six seconds?" It’s kind of hard to count when your knuckle decides to go rogue and try out a new position just for fun.

"And this happened when you were,” Alfred clears his throat, “washing your hands, sir?" Alfred asks, taking Dick's hand in his own to examine it more closely.

"Yes?" Dick responds, a blush creeping up across his face.

"I see," Alfred says. "You did a very good job splinting it. How long have you been icing this morning?"

"Almost ten minutes."

Alfred nods once in approval. "Right. I suppose I should make an appointment with your doctor and call Master Bruce. It wouldn't hurt to get an x-ray and a proper splint.”

“Do I really need to see a doctor? I don't think it pinched anything and it's back in place now," Dick argued, already knowing the answer. "Besides, I'm not even sure it actually dislocated, it could've just subluxed or something."

"You do not normally dislocate the joints in your fingers, correct?" Alfred asks.

Dick nods. "It’s only been my shoulders and my knee before."

"So, one could make the assumption that this is not normal, everything considering?" Alfred asks, and Dick nods again.

“I thought so. Master Bruce was also talking to Dr. Thompkins the other evening about your health situation, and she recommended that we start documenting these incidents where we can. And seeing as your appointment with the rheumatologist is only next month, it would be wise to have this on record," Alfred reasons. "Then there is my original point of making sure everything has realigned properly and nothing else received trauma.”

“Yeah,” Dick mumbles.

“I also believe that getting it professionally checked out will give everyone some peace of mind. Don’t you?" And that's when Dick realizes that Alfred has seen right through him. 

Bruce is home not even thirty minutes later. Dick retells the story, but Bruce has this mix of concern and disbelief written on his face that’s making Dick uncomfortable. Bruce asks to see the finger, saying the splint will do for now, and Dick rolls his eyes. He wants to go ice some more, but Alfred is telling them that it’s time to leave. So he doesn’t say anything and they're on their way to the doctor's office—and, yes Bruce, he's sure they're supposed to go to the doctor, not the ER. Because as ridiculous as this is, it's not an emergency.

The two of them sit in the waiting room, Bruce flipping through a magazine and Dick glancing over at the kid's show playing on the television. He knows he's only thirteen, but as he looks at the four-year-old coloring on the short table, Dick starts to feel out of place at the pediatrician.

"Richard Grayson?" the nurse calls and Dick and Bruce stand up to walk over. "Hi, sweetie, how are you doing?"

"Okay, you?" he asks politely, offering a smile.

"I'm good, thanks," she replies as she leads them down a hall. "Okay, let's stop over here and get your height and weight."

He's grown half an inch and his weight is perfect. So is his blood pressure, thanks. They go into a room and she asks about his finger. He fidgets as he tells her how it happened, and she looks a little surprised, but she doesn’t call him out on the admittedly unbelievable story. She asks about his pain before promising that the doctor will be in shortly.

"So, this is a fun way to spend your lunch break, huh?" Dick asks sarcastically, holding his left hand in his lap as he swings his legs absentmindedly.

Bruce sighs and looks up at Dick. "You were washing your hands?"

"I know right?" It's ridiculous. "Think the doctor's heard that one before?"

"I'd be surprised."

Dick nods. "What's the doctor’s name again?" They're not seeing Dick's pediatrician because he wasn't in today, but that's okay. As long as it doesn’t take forever, he doesn’t care who he sees. 

"Dr. Brighton."

"How long do you think this will take?" Dick asks next.

"I don't know. They'll probably want to do x-rays, and then depending on those, we might have to go somewhere else."

"The odds of that?"

"Low. If you say it's back in, it probably is. And from what you told me, I don't think there will be a pinched nerve or something else like that. We just want to be safe," Bruce assures him, because that's what Bruce does, and it works.

"Think we can get something to eat afterward?" Dick asks, but it's more of a suggestion.

"We'll see."

That's Bruce-speak for yes, so Dick gives this little half smile and thinks about what he wants. But then there’s a knock on the door and he's shaking hands with the doctor.

"So, Dick, want to tell me how you hurt your pinky?" Dr. Brighton asks.

Dick tells his story for what feels like the millionth time. Telling it is getting annoying, but he’s not tired of the faces people are making just yet.

"Uh-huh. And what time did this happen?"

He knows how bad three thirty in the morning is, so he lies. "Two in the morning."

The doctor laughs and says, "My suggestion would be to go to bed earlier and not wash your hands so hard."

Dick laughs too, but the thing is he _tried_ going to sleep early and he _wasn't_ washing his hands hard at all.

The doctor asks more questions about what it felt like before and after it popped back in, how it felt in the morning, and what he did (ice and Aleve).

Dr. Brighton nods and writes a few things down before checking out Dick's splint. "You did a very nice job on this splinting. Any doctor's in the family?"

Dick shakes his head, "No, but I do sports and stuff, so I have some experience wrapping sprains. And I also know some basic first aid."

Dr. Brighton nods and smiles, complimenting Dick again, and Dick loves it and smiles back. "Do you want to take it off for me? I want to check the swelling."

Dick does, doing his best to hold back a grimace as the act of unwrapping it sends shooting pain through his finger.

"It's a little swollen, but I'm sure the icing has been helping, so good thinking on your part," Dr. Brighton says. "I'm going to move it around now, okay?"

It’s more of a warning than a question, but Dick nods anyway and prepares himself. When the doctor bends it, it's slow and it hurts, but it's not that bad. But that doesn't mean Dick isn't grateful when it stops.

"Can you bend it on your own for me?"

Dick nods and bends it, but it's a bit shaky and slow to bend from unexpected resistance. He feels like he can't get it down all the way on its own; he doesn’t push it.

"Alright, here's what we're going to do," Dr. Brighton starts. "Let's get you an x-ray and then a proper splint for your finger. I suspect everything will be back in place so we'll send you home. When I get the images, I'll call you and we'll go from there. Sound like a plan?"

Dick agrees and then he and Bruce are heading down to x-ray. They stop at the front desk and Bruce inquires about the splint, and the nurse tells them to get it afterward.

Dick's finger hurts (a lot now since they moved it around, but he also thinks the Aleve from last night is starting to wear off) and he wants it immobilized again and under some ice, but instead he's getting an x-ray.

"I don't want to get an x-ray. It's fine. He said it was fine." He's agitated and annoyed, he knows. He gets like that when he's tired, stressed, in pain, or angry. Right now he's all of them.

"I know, Dick, but we already talked about this. And we already knew this was going to happen," Bruce says tiredly, and Dick pouts.

"It's not even that swollen," Dick grumbles.

"Yes it is, Dick," Bruce says without even glancing at it.

Dick holds his left and right pinky against each other for comparison, surprised at how swollen it is compared to the right one. Huh.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes." _Why wouldn't it?_ "I want ice."

"When we get home. Still want to go somewhere after?" Bruce asks, changing the topic.

"Ice cream?" Dick suggests.

"That’s doable."

"And what about, um, _work_ tonight?" Dick asks, and by work, he means patrol.

"You can help Alfred."

Dick slumps. "It's just a pinky, and as long as it's splinted—"

"No, Dick. Not tonight, and especially not while it's still bruised and swollen like that.” Bruce considers Dick’s pouting face. “The doctor said to keep it in a splint for the next 5-7 days; it's not the end of the world."

"I know, I was there," Dick grumbles, not appreciating what was about to turn into a lecture.

Bruce sighs, about to continue, but then Dick's name is called and he gets up immediately. Bruce stands up to follow, but the nurse says Bruce can wait in the lobby, so there.

The x-ray technician asks Dick random question to keep him distracted (school, sports, etc.) as she moves his pinky in several different positions that are uncomfortable and pinch, taking the pictures in between poses. Then he's done and she's telling Bruce he should get a call later tonight or tomorrow morning. But they all know it's fine.

They go back upstairs to the same examination room to wait for a different nurse to come back and splint Dick’s finger. She comes in and fits him with a silver, metal splint with blue foam on the inside. She tightens it a little and it wraps around his knuckle, leaving it open at the top so his skin can breathe.

"Is that too tight?" she asks.

"No, it's fine," he says, trying and failing to bend his pinky. He smiles.

"Good. Okay, you're going to want to wear that all the time, except when you shower and wash your hands. It will take about 5-7 days for the swelling to go down, which I'm sure the doctor already told you. We just need to make sure the knuckle is stable so it doesn't slide out again. Any questions?"

"No," he and Bruce say at the same time.

She smiles and nods. "Okay, well feel free to call here if something else comes up or if you have any questions."

"Sure thing," Bruce says.

"Thanks," Dick replies as he hops off the examination table.

He and Bruce go to an ice cream parlor in Gotham next. They don't talk about Dick's finger or how weird and wrong the whole situation is. That's a talk for later. Bruce calls Alfred to let him know how things went, though, and Dick takes a picture of his finger in the splint and sends it to Wally and Babs. Wally is still in school and his lunch period ended more than forty minutes ago, so Dick doesn't expect a reply any time soon. Babs, however, replies in two minutes. Dick smirks and types up his response, promising to tell her how it happened later. He wants to see her face, plus he wants to hang out with someone—get his mind off of stuff.

And Bruce will let him because a trip to the civilian doctor means Bruce is way more lenient about letting Dick do stuff. Hence the ice cream, and hence the yes to letting Babs come over. It's not just leniency this time, though; Bruce also seems a little on edge. Dick almost thinks Bruce will keep him home from gymnastics practice, but he doesn't. Probably because he knows his coaches will see the splint and bench him as needed. And they do, telling him he needs to wait for the pinky to heal properly because fingers are important for balance and stability (and they're right, he knows, but still— _rings_ ).

Dick spends the rest of the week laughing about his misfortune and retelling the odd story of how he dislocated his pinky by washing his hands to everyone who asks about the splint. He laughs and smiles and says, "No, it doesn't hurt that much anymore." He jokes with his friends about what a mess he is and how weird this fluke was while inside he's starting to realize that this is _wrong_. But not talking about it doesn't help either. Bruce forbids him from telling the Team what happened, which surprisingly makes him feel _more_ self-aware and uncomfortable. Bruce says it's only because it could tie Robin to Dick Grayson (which it could), and since he and Artemis go to the same school now, Bruce has him go to the Cave without the splint on as a safety measure. At that point, he had been wearing it for four days, so it really wasn't a big deal to have it off for a few hours. And yet, he feels this weird sense of anxiety as he spars without it, paying extra attention to protect the appendage. A protection he oddly doesn't take for his shoulder, which has caused more consistent and painful problems in the past.

Then again, that's because he can blame his shoulder problems on Robin and acrobatics in general, isn't it? The pinky, on the other hand, has no explanation other than the fact that Dick is sick. And as time goes on, the harder and harder it gets for him to deny that reality or the impact it has (will have) on his life. Late at night, he'll start thinking about all of the other weird stuff that has been happening (the increase in Robin-related injuries, the feeling of his knees about to give out, his knees _actually_ giving out so that he lands on the floor, the feeling of exhaustion that doesn’t seem to ever go away now, that blister from almost six months ago that has somehow turned into a scar) that, when added together, all seem to scream that _something is wrong_.

Sometimes he thinks about it a little too hard and a little too much and he gets this pit in his stomach and it makes him feel overwhelmed.

And now it's three thirty in the morning, and he can't sleep, so he's been thinking again. The pit in his stomach is back and he feels scared and overwhelmed. His breathing is starting to get weird and off and— _oh_ , look at that—he's crying.

And it's ridiculous, is the thing.

**Author's Note:**

>  **EDS Note:** Because the collagen in EDS patients is defective, this leaves joints predisposed to frequents dislocations and subluxations (partial dislocations). The combination and instability caused by the defective collagen is the main culprit, but building muscle in those areas can help decrease frequency. These dislocations/subluxations do not require excessive trauma to occur and they can usually be relocated by the patient in question. Some dislocations/subluxations are painful while others simply make joints “feel off.” Other patients are so used to ignoring chronic pain that they cannot tell when a joint is out until it goes numb or the move. But no matter how noticeable or painful the dislocation/subluxation is, they can still cause damage and limiting the frequency by special EDS physical therapy and bracing is important, as is prompt relocation.
> 
> If you have any other questions, feel free to ask in the comments below and I'll answer them as best I can. Thanks for reading, and if you could do me a favor and leave me a comment telling me what you thought, I would really appreciate it!


End file.
